She went over to the grate and looked sadly into the ashes.
"My first love letter," she said softly. "Oh, Karl, it was my confession of my love for you. I would like to read it over again with you, and then we might forget. I don't want to be afraid. I want to be strong, to be happy. If I only had that letter now."
Karl took her hands in his, and comforted her.
"Never mind it, Olga; it has served its purpose. It has taught us ourselves, our hearts."
"It has taught us that we must be strong, brave and loyal," Olga declared warmly.
They stood thus, looking into each other's eyes, sanely, clearly, each ready to renounce. The door of the studio opened and Millar stood before them again, holding in his extended hand a letter.
"I beg a thousand pardons again," he said. "I find I gave Karl an old tailor's bill instead of madam's letter."
Olga eagerly took the letter, opened it and recognized her own handwriting.
"My letter, Karl!" she exclaimed.
Both bent close over the letter, reading it eagerly, while Millar slipped quietly out of the studio—out of their lives. Olga looked up from their reading.